The Williamstown Murder
by MissTempleton
Summary: There aren't nearly enough women in the State of Victoria who shoot target rifle, thought Jack at no point ever. So why does he decide to connive to add to their number?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"Hello? Phryne?"

"Yes, Jack?"

"I need to ask a favour."

"Oh good!"

"I was afraid you would say that. Is there any possibility that you won't hold this over me at some point in the future when you want sight of confidential information that I am absolutely not allowed to let you see?"

"No, Jack, no possibility whatsoever. Now, what is it you need me to do?"

"I need you to pretend to be able to shoot."

"But Jack, I can shoot. I don't need to pretend."

"Not your little pearl-handled .38 – I need you to join a target rifle team. Have you ever fired a Lee Enfield?"

"Oh. No. Well, how different can it be? Why do you need me to do it, anyway?"

"Because one of the State of Victoria Ladies' Team has just had an accident."

"I'm so sorry to hear it, though I confess I didn't know we had a State of Victoria Ladies' Team. Has she strained her trigger finger?"

"No, she's had her brains blown out during a training session."

"Oh."

"Quite. I need you to go to Williamstown and get people to talk to you. I'll drive down with you and explain on the way."

"Righty-ho."

"I'm asking you because there's no other way, you do understand? Please don't get shot, Phryne."

"Don't be silly, Jack. I'm going to be the one holding the gun, surely?"

"I think you'll find they have more than one gun at Williamstown."

"Oh well. I'll just have to stay on everyone's good side."

"That's what I'm afraid of. I'll be there in half an hour."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

What To Wear had posed a minor quandary for Miss Fisher, but a phone call to the other half of Fisher & Williams had drawn the brilliant suggestion from Dot that she dig out the sporting rig she'd worn when pretending to the world at large that she had a clue how to direct a moving picture.

(Any excuse to wear these boots again, thought Phryne happily, as she tipped the trilby nattily over one eye and winked at the mirror).

The first altercation between the spouses occurred when Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson turned up at 221B The Esplanade in a police car and expected the Honourable Phryne Fisher to get into it.

It led to at least a minute's delay before they left in Mrs Robinson's Hispano-Suiza; to be fair, the delay would have been less had Phryne been allowed to drive, but Jack very patiently explained that he needed her to familiarise herself with the case file before they arrived at their destination. She contemplated offering to read it while driving, but subsided under A Look and sulkily climbed into the passenger seat.

She comforted herself that she would be dropping the Inspector off at the railway station in Williamstown for a train journey back to Melbourne that would stop Absolutely Everywhere and take at least twice as long as the drive down, even allowing that the person at the wheel was driving ridiculously slowly.

The file on the Williamstown shooting was, it had to be said, slim. Jack gave an apologetic look as he handed it over, before pushing the starter on the Hispano.

"I know we're short on information, but that's my whole problem," he explained. "For some reason, despite the fact that a young woman has been killed by a shot through the head on their rifle range, no-one will speak to us. Or rather, they'll speak to us, but they won't say anything."

He gave her a glance that spoke volumes. "I've known wharfies with a gangland grudge be more forthcoming than this lot. I've tried threats of obstruction. I've tried to find their sympathy for the deceased. I've even tried to appeal to their better nature." He shrugged. "Nothing. Short of arresting a hundred of the state's best marksmen, I'm at a standstill."

She perused what scant evidence the gentlemen of the State of Victoria's police force had been able to glean.

A young woman – Elsie Dunbar – had been shot in the head. She had, at the time of the shooting, been engaged in a practise session with other like-minded folk, a few of which were also women. She had been positioned on the very first target on the range, at the leftmost end.

They, and indeed all those present, had been using the two hundred yard firing point (Phryne's brow furrowed slightly, as it well might on one whose optimal distance from the target had so far proved to be about fifteen feet at most. She had not yet discovered that two hundred yards was considered by these people to be a short distance).

The precise time of death was not known.

Phryne had to read that sentence twice, and then read it out to Jack, who confirmed it.

There were, at the time, almost one hundred individuals also shooting. The person on Elsie Dunbar's right had been focused on her own efforts, and could only say that she wasn't aware of an unusual sound during the time they were shooting, blaming her oblivion on the fact that she had been wearing ivory ear-plugs. Three of the range officers said that they had heard a shot which appeared to echo oddly, but none of them had been able immediately to explain it – again, ear defenders were blamed.

The shot, said the coroner's report, had entered through the back of the head, slightly to the right of centre and exited through the philtrum, slightly to the left of the nasal passage. The bullet itself had been located at the front of the firing point on which the victim had been lying, buried in the ground.

It was given as the coroner's opinion that the shot had been fired from a distance of less than five hundred yards, given that it had travelled cleanly through the skull without notable loss of momentum or inclination to yaw; the ability of the Lee Enfield rifle to hit a target with a good degree of accuracy at up to one thousand yards supported this notion.

Also in support of the notion was the existence of an area of woodland at the rear of the range, just behind the five hundred yard firing point; a place in which a murderer could easily have concealed themselves while taking aim.

"So, who am I to be, Jack?"

He spared her a glance from his focus on the road, and raised an eyebrow.

"I'd hazard a guess, turning up among this particular group in this particular car with your particular social history, you stick with the idea of being Phryne Fisher?"

She grinned.

"Oh well, that makes life easier anyway." She glanced down at the file on her lap. "You said 'accident' but this is surely murder, Jack?"

He grimaced. "My gut feel says so. Apart from anything else, this isn't the kind of community that lets accidents happen. They're far more aware of the dangers than your average swagman with a shotgun."

"That's going to be a bit of a damper on conversation then," mused Phryne. "I'll have to hope they're so keen to get another woman shooting that they'll welcome me with open arms and not ask too many questions."

Jack reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Just do what you can. Right, here's the station."

He drew the car to a halt and, turning to her, ran a gentle finger down her cheek. "Be careful, Miss Fisher – I want Mrs Robinson home safe and sound this evening."

Taking his face in both hands, she planted a kiss firmly on his mouth.

"Jack, I'll be fine." They both got out, and she walked around to the driver's side; he politely opened her door, and she thanked him equally politely – then, eyes dancing, rubbed a thumb across his mouth. Leaning in, she whispered conspiratorially in his ear.

"Luscious Rose still isn't your shade, Jack dear."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Phryne heard the range before she saw it; the irregular crack of the firing of many rifles could be heard even over the Hispano's engine. Seeing a row of vehicles parked alongside a clapboard building with a noticeboard outside that gave it an organisational air, she added the Hispano to the ranks and strode into the building.

A long wooden counter split the room, and was cluttered with paperwork; the sole other occupant of the room was a spry, silver-haired gentleman in a tweed coat and a tie with regimental overtones who might have been trying to bring order to the paperwork, or just rearranging it. His smart ensemble was, however, let down by possibly the scruffiest pair of trousers Phryne had seen outwith the cells of City South.

He peered at her over half-moon spectacles and appeared to like what he saw.

"Hello, madam, can I be of any assistance?"

The Fisher Saunter was unleashed as she made her way over and leaned both elbows on the counter, looking up at him in her most beguiling fashion.

"Well, I hope so!" she smiled, with just a finely-judged hint of uncertainty. "The thing is, I have only ever fired handguns, and I would very much like to learn to fire a rifle, but I don't quite know how to go about it. I was racking my brains, and eventually decided I should just come here and ask."

He smiled in return.

"You have definitely come to the right place, Miss ... "

"Fisher. The Honourable Phryne Fisher," she replied, sticking out a hand to shake.

The deployment of the 'Hon' would have raised Jack's eyebrows, but Phryne had judged her audience perfectly. The smile became positively avuncular.

"Edwin Higginbottom, at your very humble service, ma'am," he took the hand and bowed over it in a courtly manner. "I venture to say you have come to the right place, and in ..." he glanced up at the clock on the wall, "about ten minutes, I will be able to introduce you to a lady who will, unless I much mistake the matter, be delighted to make your acquaintance."

"Teddy, love, we're going to need the same again tomorrow," announced a stern-looking blonde in stentorian tones precisely nine and a half minutes later. "Kate's all at sea. Not surprising in the circs, but bloody annoying."

'Teddy' nodded and scribbled something on a clipboard miraculously produced from half way down one of the paper piles.

"Letty," he called as the woman was about to leave. "There's someone I want you to meet."

She turned on her heel and registered the presence of Phryne Fisher. A society smile was pinned on, and hellos and handshakes exchanged. As Teddy had rightly surmised, Letty's demeanour, when Phryne's mission was explained, underwent a transformation.

"Brilliant. Come with me," was all she said before exiting the building even more purposefully than she had entered it. Phryne, pausing only to exchange a wink with Teddy, strode out.

If the Fisher Sashay was employed it was purely for Brigadier E. Higginbottom (Retd)'s benefit, and he benefited from it immensely.

Lovely girl, that Miss Fisher, was the considered opinion of all those present.

"Ever shot fullbore?" was the question tossed at Phryne over Letty's shoulder.

"Er, no," said Phryne. Not easily cowed, she was already feeling a touch daunted by this Amazon. "Only ever fired a handgun, but I've been fairly successful at that."

Letty stopped and turned to give her a considering glance.

"What calibre?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Bit of a kick. Good. You'll still be taken by surprise by a .303 though. Heavy trigger, and the rifling makes a lot of difference."

Phryne found herself in an unusually acquiescent role. It wasn't often that she came across someone who was as confident – and competent – with firearms as she was herself, of either sex.

They'd been striding out to the range, and Phryne's beautiful boots had been dealing with some genuine, honest-to-goodness scrub. They arrived at a stretch of flat, manicured surface where there were still quite a few people packing up their gear from the morning's shoot. Letty unhesitatingly approached a gentleman sitting at a trestle table in front of a bag of empty cases and a telephone.

"Jock, can you give me a dozen rounds and a target for twenty minutes?"

The range officer was unimpressed.

"Letitia, I've told you before, this is a range, not a playground. After what happened to poor Elsie, I'm astonished that you can even ask."

Letty put her hands on her hips and curled her lip.

"Jock, it's precisely because of What Happened To Poor Elsie that I'm asking. I've got a rookie with some handgun experience and I need to see what she can do. I'm asking you nicely – see if the butts have got anyone who can give us a target. Tell them I'll settle up before they go home today."

Phryne couldn't help noticing that the availability of the rounds didn't seem to be the issue.

Jock muttered to himself but wound the handle on the telephone and succeeded in securing the services of butt markers for one of the targets for precisely twenty minutes And Not A Second More, Letitia.

Letty hadn't even bothered waiting for the lecture – as soon as she'd caught the gist of the conversation, she was directing Phryne to a position on the firing point.

"Hang on, before you lie down – here's elbow pads and earplugs. The first in case you want to hit the target more than once, the second if you want to be able to hear your grandchildren's reaction to your tales of glory for hitting it the second time. On which note – I should ask what you did in the war?"

Phryne did a double take.

"Ambulance driver in France. Why?"

"Good. It's a point of honour for a lot of our colleagues that shooting is for those who defended the country in the war, and handing out white feathers, though lauded in some circles, isn't exactly what we're about."

Phryne swallowed, nodded and put on the elbow pads.

"Right, Miss Fisher, let's see what you can do. Message One, Jock."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The gun was, Phryne thought stupidly heavy. The sling showed interesting potential for the boudoir but seemed overweeningly complicated for the firing point, until she was actually in the aim, at which point a great deal became clear.

She could see, when controlling her breathing as instructed, the target at which she was aiming, in beautiful clarity. She was also very steady; she could begin to understand how the deceased, shot through the head, might remain in the aim for quite some time. With the first round in the barrel, she took aim in the manner directed and fired a shot.

The butt of the rifle hit her in the shoulder.

"Ouch."

"I told you to make sure it was in your shoulder. Sort it."

Phryne obediently shuffled and Sorted It.

The target reappeared.

"First sighting shot, magpie scoring three, four o clock," commented Letty, making a mark on the scorecard in front of her. "I thought you said you could shoot a handgun?"

Phryne mumbled in response; it didn't really matter because Letty wasn't listening.

"Get the butt of the rifle properly in your shoulder and squeeze, don't pull – come on, you've shot a handgun, you can do that part. Breathe in, breathe out half way until the target's in the centre of your sights and hold until you're ready to take your shot. Now you know what the kick feels like, try not to act like a roo with an itch. Squeeze it. Gently, but firmly and steadily."

Phryne tried to conjure up an image of something with a diameter of about a couple of inches, captured between her thumb and index finger, smiled a private smile to herself and squeezed it gently but firmly and steadily.

"Bullseye. Okay, try and do that again with your first shot to count. We don't have to worry about the wind too much at this range and your elevation's not bad."

Ten shots later, Letty flung down her pencil and rolled on to her back, ignoring the Akubra that was tipped off her head in the process.

"Jock, Message Ten and thank the markers please. Phryne, that was your first try at shooting a full-bore rifle, correct?"

Phryne, trying to restore circulation to her left wrist, nodded. Letty had stopped commenting on her scores after the first couple of shots, and she was trying not to panic that she was going to get rejected too early to get any of Jack's answers.

"You've just put in a possible."

"Possible what?" asked Phryne, confused.

"You've scored fifty from fifty. Best possible score, we call it a 'Possible'.

A lesser woman would have disclaimed any achievement.

"Do I get into the team, then?" asked Phryne.

"Damn right you get into the team. I'm going to have to teach you about wind for five hundred yards, but something tells me you won't struggle too much."

Letty stood up, stretched and looked down at her rookie recruit, hands on hips.

"Come on, I'm going to take you to meet the other girls."

Letty carried the rifle and Phryne carried her head high as they left the firing point.

"There's only three of us – four, counting you," explained Letty as they walked towards another of the clapboard buildings. "It's a bit of a conceit to call ourselves a team – the point is that we're trying to be one, but we haven't entered anything yet as a team."

They mounted the steps and Letty pushed open the door to a scene of industry – or at least, some industry. One of the young women there present was engaged in cleaning her rifle; the other was slouched in a chair rocked on to its back legs, with her ankles crossed on the same table the other was using, and drinking beer straight from the bottle in her hand. When Letty and Phryne entered, they both glanced up. Letty performed the introductions.

"Kate," the beer-drinker, "Susan," the industrious one, "this is Phryne."

Kate narrowed her eyes. "We've met. Prudence Stanley's fundraiser for the hospital a couple of months ago."

Phryne nodded, smiled and hoped she hadn't advertised her day job at Aunt Pru's party. She didn't think she had – stabbings, poisonings and other less fatal felonies tended not to be approved topics of conversation as far as Aunt Prudence was concerned.

"Phryne's going to be joining us," announced Letty. "She's just shot a possible at two hundred."

Susan paused in extracting the cloth from the pull-through. "Honestly? Excellent news. Marjorie Foster eat your heart out!" she grinned.

Seeing Phryne's puzzled expression, Letty explained. "Marjorie Foster's an Englishwoman. Amazing shot. Just won the King's Prize at Bisley."

"It's because of her we've got together," said Susan. "Ideally, we want to be in a position to go to the Imperial Meeting at Bisley next year – show them that it's not just the Poms whose women can shoot."

Kate, meanwhile, remained silent and watchful. This, presumably, was the Kate who was "all at sea."

"I'm surprised there aren't more women," remarked Phryne as casually as she could manage. Kate bit her lip, got up and went to look out of the window.

"There used to be," replied Letty shortly. She and Susan exchanged glances, and tacit agreement of some kind was reached.

"There was … an accident a few days ago. Someone was shot and killed."

"But that's awful? How could that happen?" Phryne exclaimed. "A woman?"

Susan nodded soberly.

"Elsie," she said. And, with a glance at the figure at the window. "Kate's sister."

 _That explains a great deal_ , thought Phryne, and wondered that no mention had been made in the case file of the fact that the victim's sister was also a shooter. She turned to Kate.

"I'm so sorry. It must have been awful for you. How did it happen?"

Kate shrugged an angry shoulder and wouldn't meet her eye.

"I don't know. I wasn't there. All I know is that she was shot through the head during training."

Letty slumped into a chair and propped one elbow on the table.

"It was just a regular training session. Elsie was on target 11 – that's the first one on the range – and was shot in the head from behind. No-one saw who did it, or even knows exactly when it happened. I was next to her, and I didn't even notice until I'd finished shooting."

Phryne shook her head as though in disbelief.

"What are the police doing?"

Kate barked a laugh. "Nothing. Nothing they _can_ do, without any leads." Slamming her bottle down on the table, she stormed out.

Susan looked after her sadly.

"I'm sorry," she said to Phryne. "She and Elsie had been going through some tough times lately. They needled each other constantly – typical siblings – but they were all the family they had."

"What happened to their parents?" asked Phryne.

"Killed in a motoring accident – must be about six or seven years ago now," said Susan. She placed her rifle carefully in a cabinet fixed to the wall of the club house and the bolt in a separate box. Phryne watched, and was once again struck by the incongruity of there being a fatal accident in such a place where rules, process and procedure were so clearly second nature to every member of this close-knit society.

"So, Phryne, have we managed to put you off the idea?" asked Letty. "I promise, Kate isn't always so prickly. The accident's obviously knocked her for six, and her shooting too – so she's just lacking anything at all that's a constant in her life."

Phryne nodded understandingly.

"You haven't put me off, and I'd like to help if I can. I scarcely recognised the Kate Dunbar I met at my aunt's fundraiser. Where does she live?"

"Elsternwick," replied Letty.

"That's quite close to me – I'm in St Kilda," mused Phryne. "I should perhaps invite her for lunch."

Letty snorted. "Good luck with that – at least wait until tomorrow. I'll give you her number, though."

Deeming it a good day's work, Phryne agreed to return for the next training session and made straight for the Hispano, pointing its nose north and setting a course for City South Police Station.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

"Hello, Hugh – is he in?"

Jack heard her before he saw her and hastily hid the tin of biscuits.

"Any biscuits left, Jack?" she asked cheerily, waltzing into his office and perching on the corner of his desk. Resignedly, he reopened the bottom drawer and proffered the tin.

"I missed lunch," she explained, mouth full. "But I have to say it was worth it. You will wish to thank me, Jack – in fact, I think you may need to worship me on your knees by the time I've finished."

"You know you're describing one of my favourite activities, Miss Fisher," he replied, serenely refusing to rise to the bait, "but why, in particular, are we offering obeisance today?"

"Because my prowess on the shooting range – of which more later," she preened, "has led the ladies' team to trust me so well that they let slip what seems to be quite an important fact about the deceased."

"Oh yes?" Jack sat forward.

She tipped her head to one side and regarded him quizzically.

"Would it surprise you to know that the deceased had a sister who was also on the team?"

His jaw dropped.

"Yes. Yes, it would. How on earth did we miss her? All we had was that she was an orphan. We've been trying to find next of kin but with so little to go on …" he drifted into silence. Then cursed the entire closed coterie of target rifle shooters, with the possible exception of present company.

"Well, she wasn't there that day; and if the rest of the population was being as obtuse as you say, I suppose it's understandable," Phryne allowed generously. "Anyway, it turns out I already knew her. Kate Dunbar's an acquaintance of my Aunt Prudence. We met at a fundraiser a little while ago."

She decided it was time to stop gloating.

"Jack, she's really cut up about the whole thing – unsurprisingly, I suppose. I'm going to see if I can get her to come and have lunch with me tomorrow after training, though I don't know if she'll agree. She's angry, but as far as I can tell, mostly with the police."

Jack sighed.

"With good reason, by the sounds of it." He glanced up at her. "Might we see if we can have a word with Mrs Stanley?"

Phryne grimaced, but had to admit it was a good idea. As Jack stood and reached for his hat, she reluctantly slid off her perch.

"Never mind," he whispered in her ear, slinging a casual arm around her waist. "I'll just worship you all the more."

He was rewarded with the kind of smile that could still, after all this time, hit him right in the solar plexus.

Instantly reconciled to the prospect of an interview with her perennially disapproving aunt, Phryne led the way to the Hispano and started describing to him precisely how much fun target rifle shooting was, and describing in detail her Imaginary Secret Weapon, because Making Jack Blush was one of her favourite things.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Prudence Stanley was both At Home and in a good mood, for which both sleuths were grateful.

"Phryne! Jack! The most delightful news!" she exclaimed. She'd started calling him Jack recently, he'd noticed, and tried not to make a connection between her informality and an unfortunate incident when he'd been retrieving vital evidence from her swimming pool.

Phryne kissed her aunt with every appearance of fondness, and asked what the news might be.

"Imagine, Phryne! The mayor is so pleased at the amount of money we have raised for the hospital that he is going to hold a dinner, and _I_ am to be the Guest of Honour!" she declared. Phryne smiled dutifully and applauded the mayor silently on his grasp of politics. This would probably double the amount of money raised for the hospital in the coming year, or Phryne was a Chinaman.

Jack would have been happy to confirm, if asked, that she was one hundred percent Australian female; having surveyed, he thought, every inch of the exhibit for the defence.

"Aunt Pru, that's marvellous, and only right and proper. In fact, it's to do with the hospital that we're here. Could you perhaps spare us a few minutes to tell us about someone I think you know quite well?"

Aunt Pru graciously agreed, ordered tea and seated herself in her favourite armchair in the drawing room.

"It's about Kate Dunbar, Aunt P," began Phryne.

"Oh yes," Prudence smiled and nodded. "A lovely girl. Such a shame about her parents."

"You knew the family?" asked Jack.

"A little," sighed Prudence. "Kate and her mother had both done some nursing during the war, and Kate very kindly continued coming to our little luncheons even after her parents died."

"So there's money?" asked Phryne bluntly.

Prudence pursed her lips. "Not wealth, Phryne – what one would call a competence. There's a trust fund, and of course the house; neither of the girls needs to work if they don't wish to."

It dawned on both detectives at the same moment that they'd overlooked a key detail. After a swift exchange of glances, Phryne undertook to break the news.

"I'm afraid it's just Kate now, Aunt Prudence. The reason we're asking about her is because Elsie was killed in a shooting accident a few days ago." Best to call it an accident – the thought of murder would definitely put Aunt P off her loquacious stride.

The shock was considerable all the same, and it took an exchange of the teacup for something a little stronger before Aunt P could continue.

"They all came here during the war. I think it was from Queensland. They never really spoke of a wider family, and John Dunbar – the father – went straight off to join up. Miriam was left with the girls in that lovely house, and I think they did what they could for the war effort; Kate was the elder girl, and I know she came to help out after school when her mother was working at the hospital."

"It was truly tragic when the car came off the road on the way to Queenscliff. They were having a trip away to celebrate their wedding anniversary, and to this day, no-one really knows what happened. But those poor girls were left orphaned, although of course they were both young women by then. Still a horrid tragedy, though."

Then she paused and had a new inspiration.

"Have you met Malcolm? Their cousin, he's in town at the moment."

Jack said idly that they hadn't, and did Mrs Stanley happen to know where he was staying?

"At the family house, I suppose," suggested Prudence. "He only arrived a couple of weeks ago for a visit. Silly, really, I think we'd all forgotten that there must be more to the family than the Dunbars on our doorstep."

"In Elsternwick?" asked Phryne. Prudence nodded.

"I don't suppose you have the address?" asked Jack diffidently.

"Well, of course … just a moment." Prudence groaned to her feet and went off in search of her address book.

"If you're going there, Jack, I'll stay away," muttered Phryne as soon as her aunt was out of earshot. "I think I'll get more from Kate if she doesn't know about my police connection quite yet."

He nodded, and straightened as Prudence reappeared, address book in hand. Extricating his notebook from an inside pocket, he wrote down the Dunbars' address and stood.

"Thank you, Mrs Stanley – you've been most helpful, and I'm just sorry we had to be the bearers of bad news."

Phryne kissed her aunt's cheek dutifully, and they beat a retreat to the car.

"Shall I take you back to the station, Jack? You can pick up a car there – and a constable, I expect – to go to the Dunbars'."

He agreed, and pulled his hat more firmly down on his head. Miss Fisher's driving speed tended to give rise to, well, rising hats – and as he'd already contributed a lot to the coffers of Buzolich, the hatters under the clock at Flinders Street, he didn't really want to contribute any more just now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

When the Inspector and Constable Collins rang the bell at the Dunbar house a little later that afternoon, there was no immediate response.

Jack took a step back and scanned the windows at the front of the house – a comfortable, if not luxurious property, set back from the road in a garden consisting chiefly of lawns which could have done with a manicure – or perhaps a scythe – but there were no signs of life.

Wishing he'd thought to telephone ahead, but then reflecting that he might well have met outright rejection at that stage and have had to come over the Heavy Handed Policeman, a role he could play but never really felt happy about his lines, Jack decided the current strategy was the better one.

He rang the doorbell again, and this time there was a muted "All right, all right, keep your hair on," from the other side of the half-glass door. The mottled reds and greens eventually resolved into a figure; the handle turned and a well-groomed but ill-dressed man in, Jack guessed, his early thirties, surveyed them enquiringly.

A badge and terse introduction got them over the threshold and into a drawing room which was in sore need of both tidying and dusting.

"Er, Mr …Dunbar?" Jack essayed.

"Malcolm Dunbar," confirmed the man. "Is this about poor Elsie?"

Something about the way he said it had Jack's hackles up immediately.

"Elsie Dunbar, yes," he said flatly. "What relation was Miss Dunbar to you?"

"Cousin," he replied readily, then hesitated. "No, wait … second cousin? Our grandfathers were brothers. I'm sorry, I'm a little hazy about these things. I usually ask my mother," he offered with a saccharine smile. "Anyway, we'd not seen each other since we were kids, so I came down for a visit. This has been … horrible." He frowned and looked to the fireplace (ashes, unraked) for inspiration.

"Where's home, Mr Dunbar?" asked Jack.

"Queensland. Just outside Brisbane."

"And when did you arrive for your visit?"

"Oh, it must be almost … two weeks ago now? Yes, in fact, exactly two weeks today."

"And I must ask – I'm sorry – what were you doing last Monday morning?"

Dunbar gave a sarcastic side-eye to the standard question.

"Don't tell me, Inspector – Just Routine? Well, I was Just Routinely meeting with the local representative of my family's bankers. The meeting was at ten-thirty and lasted for well over an hour."

Jack's poker face showed no sign of the depth of his disappointment that this thoroughly unlikeable character could not have been at the range at the time of the murder.

"And – your other cousin, Miss Kate Dunbar?"

Dunbar shrugged as rudely as he could manage.

"I have no idea, Inspector. I assure you that if you can get a coherent word out of her at the moment, you'll be doing better than me."

"Is she at home?"

"I don't think so."

Jack waited. One of his favourite techniques when questioning a difficult witness was to say nothing at all; eventually, they were often forced to fill the awkward silence.

"Inspector …" Dunbar rolled his eyes.

Jack waited.

"Kate …" Dunbar tried to prevaricate and gave up. "Kate likes a drink. She's liked a drink more since Elsie died. She's tended to start liking a drink as soon as she comes back from training, and carries on well into the night."

Jack tilted his head in tacit question.

"Oh, come on, Inspector, you don't need me to explain to you how that can be done." Jack didn't. There weren't enough officers in the City of Melbourne Police Force to keep up with the illicit out-of-hours drinking establishments, and it was rarely at the top of Jack's to-do list in any case. "And if you expect me to compound my cousin's challenges by directing you to her current whereabouts, I'm going to wonder whether tracking down a murderer is really your top priority."

The sneer wasn't even slightly hidden now. Jack decided to quit while he was ahead, and closed the front door perhaps only slightly too firmly behind him.

As the police car started up in the driveway, Dunbar stood watching at the drawing room window. He turned when a figure appeared in the doorway.

"Who was that, Malcolm?"

He smiled, and went over to enfold the young woman in a protective hug,

"The police, being as flatfooted as ever, Kate darling. Don't worry. Go back to bed for a bit, hmm?"

As she turned listlessly away, the telephone rang. Kate was next to it, and before Malcolm could intervene, picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Oh. Yes, hello Phryne. What? Lunch? Well, I don't know … Oh, well, why not. Yes. Thank you. Yes, see you at the range."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Five hundred yards was, Phryne reflected the following morning, a rather different proposition to two hundred, especially in breezy, coastal Williamstown.

"Your elevation's fine, look," explained Letty, plotting the chart. "You need to remember to keep half an eye on the flags, though. Even just get used to the feel of the wind on your cheek, and if it's dropped away just as you're going to fire, wait until it's come back to something like the gust you've adjusted for. But don't start tensing for breath."

"Still," the woman grinned, "46 is very respectable for a first attempt. Well done."

Kate walked back to join them, carrying her rifle with her. Letty squinted up at her.

"How did it go?"

"Better," replied Kate, throwing her scorebook down for Letty to examine. "The pencil on the trigger mechanism definitely made it feel smoother, and I can't deny it helped my confidence."

She looked at Phryne, in a decidedly less hostile manner than the previous day. "How's the rookie?"

Phryne smiled ruefully. "Let's just say that after yesterday's experience, five hundred yards was a firm reminder that I'm a rookie!"

They collected Susan and returned to the clubhouse to clean rifles.

"Are you still coming for lunch, Kate?" asked Phryne casually.

Kate gave her a flinty look; as polite acceptances went, it probably wouldn't have ranked in the top ten. Possibly somewhere above Diane de Poitiers for an afternoon tea with Catherine de Medici but definitely not Cinderella to her fairy godmother. "Yes, please, if the offer's still open. Can I beg a lift with you?"

"Certainly," smiled Phryne, "though you might regret it!"

Perhaps, thought Phryne, lady rifle shooters were made of sterner stuff than assistant detectives, but all Kate did was tighten the ties on her Akubra. Phryne made a mental note to acquire one – even the broad brim of her trilby wasn't ever going to be as good as one of these wonderfully useful millinery marvels for keeping the sun off her sights. She'd gone to the lengths of covering the rear sights with trusty Parker's Dead Black, which Letty swore by to reduce glare; which made her feel she ought to admit she was becoming hooked.

They talked about wind on the drive to St Kilda, and Kate was politely appreciative of Mr Butler's cold roast beef and salad (which was just as well, given what Phryne's reaction would have been if she'd been rude about it). Mr B opened a bottle of Shiraz, of which Kate partook with alacrity.

 _She likes to drink, apparently_ , Jack had reported last night. Phryne, for reasons she wouldn't necessarily want to examine, decided they would share the bottle but not open a second.

After lunch, they took coffee in the parlour, and Phryne took the initiative.

"I was sorry to hear from Letty and Susan about Elsie's death. It must be very hard for you to lose your only sister."

Perhaps she was relaxed by the wine, or perhaps she was enamoured of the company, but Kate didn't immediately fire up as Phryne had feared she might. Rather the opposite – she visibly deflated as she exhaled. Wait, were those _tears_?

"I've been losing people all my life, Phryne."

It seemed an odd thing to say. Phryne waited.

"We moved away from the rest of the family in Queensland when I was little – I didn't remember much about them, beyond the fact that there were masses of us. More uncles, aunts and cousins than you could shake a stick at. Then they were too far away and I wasn't to expect to see them again."

"Then my parents, on their anniversary trip. The police thought the brakes failed on the car, but it was hard to tell from the remains." She raised her eyes blankly to Phryne's. "Then Elsie."

There was no emotion now – nothing at all.

"And the police don't seem to know anything?" Phryne probed gently.

Instead of yesterday's outburst of anger, Kate shrugged.

"They'll have to look wider than the shooting community if they want to find out what happened." A more engaged look this time. "We know each other well, Phryne, we shooters. Some of the men have been together since the war. Everyone will have their own opinion about what happened, but if they didn't see anything, they won't make it up. You start making up facts to suit yourself, you start missing the target."

How true, thought Phryne. How desperately inconvenient for her and Jack's investigation, but nonetheless very true. And not just about shooting.

They chatted for a while about the things Phryne would have to learn, and the practise she would have to undertake to hit the target consistently.

"It was going better today for you?" Phryne ventured, trying to shift herself from the centre of attention. It wasn't wholly successful, as Kate appeared to close down again.

"Got some sleep last night – it helped," was all she would say.

"Are you … on your own?"

"Not at the moment, no. I have a cousin staying." Phryne could be mistaken, but she didn't think Kate was exactly ecstatic about her relative's visit.

"Oh? That's good, anyway, she must be a comfort," remarked Phryne disingenuously.

"Not she. He. Second cousin Malcom, from the Brisbane Dunbars," came the terse reply.

Phryne raised an eyebrow and essayed a sympathetic smile.

"Not your favourite person?"

The question appeared to make Kate uncomfortable.

"He's family. Don't you have problematic family?"

Phryne thought of her father and regrouped rapidly.

"Oh, indeed I do. Fortunately mine are – I fervently hope – still on the other side of the planet, so not an immediate problem. What brings Malcolm to Melbourne?"

Definitely uncomfortable now. Kate shifted in her seat in a way that, if her adoptive daughter Jane had done it, Phryne would have suggested she use the bathroom. As her guest was a grown woman who could be assumed to be in control of her own bladder, she refrained.

"Just visiting. We've not been in touch with the Queensland branch of the family for years. He … is trying to heal the breach."

Something about the way the words came out suggested to Phryne that any breach-healing that was going on would be ill-placed in the hands of Malcolm Dunbar, but she held her peace.

"Any plans for the rest of the day?" asked Kate, in an attempt at politeness that only a blunderbuss would have recognised.

Phryne decided it was time to give up.

"I've got tickets for the theatre tonight," she said. "His Majesty's. They're doing some Gilbert and Sullivan. I do have a bit of a weakness for G&S," she confessed.

"Oh?" The level of Polite Interest was probably to be measured on some sort of scale, balanced against Genuine Interest of which there was almost certainly none. Phryne pressed on valiantly.

"Yes, it's _Trial by Jury_ this time. I've only ever seen a concert performance, so this should be fun," she offered.

One could only expect so much of a guest whose Patience would find Trial by Jury a decidedly Limited Utopia. Kate made the most suitable reply her Sorcery could conjure, and then asked whether it would be possible to call a taxi.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Jack did scrub up awfully nicely, thought Phryne smugly, reviewing her spouse as he had a second go at tying his bow tie before allowing her to move in to do the job herself. They both knew that he would manage on his own if left to it (and especially if she stopped watching) but there was something … resonant about it being Mrs Robinson who achieved the perfect knot.

"Operetta, Jack," she remarked. "I can only thank you, and I'm sure Bernard will too."

He plastered on the 'society' smile that was intended to remind her how little attention he was planning to pay to the stage during the performance. _Well, how times have changed_ , she thought with amusement, recalling their first such appointment; when the expectation of Constable Collins, nervously presenting in his Sunday best suit, had been supplanted (thanks to a surfeit of unruly footballers) by the quite frankly jaw-dropping presence of Detective Inspector Jack Robinson in evening dress.

It was the first time Phryne had actually weakened at the knees, and regretted that awkward conscience that would not let her pursue a man who was honouring a promise to another woman.

Changed times indeed. He met her eye, read her mind, scanned her dress, enumerated to himself the endless possibilities of a private box at His Majesty's and ... leered.

 _Oh, Jack Robinson, when did you learn to leer?_

 _At about the same time you learned a fan dance, Miss Fisher._

Phryne Fisher wasn't at all sure what true love actually looked like, or even if such a nonsense existed; but if someone had taken out a colour chart and interpreted their eyes at that moment, she might have spotted a passing resemblance to the feeling in the pit of her stomach when his mouth quirked upwards.

Jack knew already, but also knew better than to try to explain. This was a secret that, one day, she would discover for herself; and only by discovering it for herself might she be reconciled to the consequences to which, he knew, she was still largely paying no more than polite, affectionate and frequently lustful observance. No amount of plain or pretty promises or rings would truly change her mind; and having almost everything his heart desired, thanks appropriately to a nuance of criminal law, he could wait until the sands of time themselves ran out for the last piece, if he had to.

Her thrill lasted long enough for him to be allowed to take the wheel of the Hispano, and if he may perhaps have felt a hint of sinful Pride as they stepped out of it at the theatre, only the most judgemental would have reminded him of the Commandments as he and the vision in a silvery velvet parted the crowds on the steps.

Bernard Tarrant, proprietor of the theatre, did the rest.

" _PHRYNE_ " he announced, in a descending scale of tones which had beckoned the audiences of Covent Garden to the palm of his hand.

She confirmed herself present by bussing his cheek and adjuring him not to be such an old queen, his daughter would be mortified.

"No she wouldn't Phryne," he chortled, "she'd be applauding me and doing her best to rustle up a Wagnerian chorus, as you well know – if she wasn't backstage right now helping our doddering judge remember his lines again. Now, come this way, I have the finest truffles and champagne!" he announced.

Jack and Phryne exchanged glances that confirmed their equal understanding that they would get some nice chocolates in a container that wouldn't rustle to interrupt the quiet bits of the performance, and a tasty-but-warm local fizz. No-one was going to be so unsporting as to flag up artistic license in this company.

Jack hung Phryne's silver fox wrap on one of the hooks as she sat down and, rather than make herself comfortable, immediately leaned forward to examine the audience.

"Full house, Jack – isn't that lovely for Bernard? And such a contrast to the Ruddigore experience."

He agreed that it was, and carefully placed his chair beside hers, but slightly behind. Sitting, he leaned on the back of her chair and scanned the theatre.

And saw a face he had not expected to see.

He immediately sat back and shifted his chair back a little more; the curtain for the box now obscured him from almost all of the audience.

Phryne glanced over her shoulder and giggled.

"Oh, come on, Jack, I know you're not planning to watch, but you could at least sit in a place where you can see the stage?"

He didn't move, and she straightened imperceptibly. There was something wrong – this much she understood.

"What is it?"

"You've not met Kate Dunbar's cousin?"

"No."

"That's him in the box opposite, if you have a chance to look."

He didn't need to warn her not to stare.

"Odd. One cousin murdered, the other he says is rendered insensate by drink – and he goes to the theatre?" She essayed another glance. "Very obviously, too – smiling and waving at someone now. Tell me, Jack, did he strike you as a toad?"

He confirmed the toad-like qualities that had struck him almost immediately on observing Malcolm Dunbar; and was then shushed by his spouse as the house lights dimmed and the band struck up the overture.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

The romantic hero was apparently fixing his interest with the chief bridesmaid.

The judge had his eye on the bride (the younger, prettier Tarrant), having 'put away the rich attorney's elderly, ugly daughter'.

Jack mainly had his eye on the door. He was not enjoying the evening he'd expected. To be fair, the evening he'd expected wasn't exactly on the management's list of planned entertainments; but he'd had reasonable hopes of distracting Mrs Robinson sufficiently from the fascinating (her) or deadly (him) qualities of G&S.

Instead of an extended programme of sensory exploration, to the accompaniment of the cheesiest of harmonies, he'd been focused on trying not to be observed by Malcolm Dunbar. It was particularly galling to discover at one point during the plaintiff's aria that the person he was trying so hard to avoid wasn't actually in his box.

The evening wasn't truly ruined, though, until Senior Constable Collins scratched on the door of their box (Collins knew that this was an off-duty night for the boss and was smart enough not to seek out ways to embarrass them all further, so his approach was appropriately cautious) and whispered to Jack that his presence was required at a murder.

Jack briefly debated what sin he could have committed in a former life – he was pretty well acquainted with the count in his current existence – to deserve this, and excused himself with a whisper.

Fat chance. Phryne stood, snagged her furs from the hook and followed him out into the corridor.

"Little Lon, sir. Nasty business, throat slit. Deceased looks pretty well-to-do, though; the shoes and clothes are good. Nothing she's carrying that can identify her, except that she'd got Miss Fisher's card tucked into her sleeve."

Phryne perked her ears up at this, and immediately demanded to be taken to the scene. It was only a couple of blocks at a brisk trot, after all. She had no problem identifying the victim, but the shock was considerable. Her head jerked back and she reached instinctively for Jack's hand.

He gripped it, and noted that this was another first. _Progress_.

Kate Dunbar had, it appeared, possessed a healthy circulation – at least until it circulated most of the blood out of her system and onto the streets of one of Melbourne's less attractive thoroughfares.

Jack crouched at her side; the cause of death was obvious and the expert to narrow down its timing would be there shortly. Phryne, apparently recovered from her initial jolt appeared opposite him, and sniffed meaningfully.

"Gin, Jack – lots of it."

He nodded, even as he straightened to greet the police doctor and the rest of the social accoutrements the State of Victoria deemed necessary to really make a suspicious death go with a bang, although the coroner's representative appeared to have forgotten his party hat.

"Collins?"

"Sir?"

"Who called it in? Do we have any witnesses?"

"No, sir. The, er, proprietor of Bloody Mary's says she let someone use the phone but she couldn't give a description on account of it being dark."

Jack resignedly accepted the inevitable – he couldn't run the risk of Mary (or Moll, as she was known to most of the less salubrious parts of Melbourne, although rarely featuring on his charge sheet) shutting down any such calls in future, which was exactly what would happen if it became known she'd squealed to the police.

"Jack, I could …"

"No, Phryne, really. It's not worth it. We don't even know whether the person who called it in wasn't just an innocent passer-by, and there's every chance someone would make the link between you and the police at the worst possible moment."

She wasn't happy having to accept his logic, and cast around for something else she could do. Sitting on one's hands wasn't much of an occupation. Inspiration hit.

"Say what you like, Jack, but I'm going back down to Williamstown tomorrow. I know some people there now, and I'm going to talk to them. And she's got a locker I can have a look at."

He hoped his relief that she wasn't about to start an accidental war in Little Lon wasn't too obvious.

She patted him on the head.

He outranked the coroner's man but the police doctor blinked a bit.

He cleared his throat, stood up again and gave a series of determined instructions that left no-one in any doubt as to who was In Charge Of The Scene; although Miss Fisher obviously missed the briefing, because she was already chatting to a weepy dero who'd just woken up to find his chosen doss-spot for the night far too crowded. In the darkness of the alley, Jack had seen only a pile of rags – trust Miss Fisher to poke her nose more deeply into unsavoury corners.

He left her to it, and a few minutes later she rejoined him and his constable.

"A small success, Jack," she asserted. "He says it was a grocer."

The policemen exhibited matching expressions of disbelief. Phryne smiled.

"I think what he means is that he saw someone in a brown overall – you know, the kind of thing a caretaker wears."

Jack's brow cleared and he sent Collins over to try to get a coherent statement.

That done, and time of death estimated as being "within the last couple of hours, sir - we'll have more for you on the weapon tomorrow" they decided there was little more they could do, and wandered back to the theatre – just in time to see the audience spilling out of the doors.

Catching sight of Dunbar, Jack pulled Phryne back into a convenient doorway. They watched as he got into a car alone and drove away.

"Should we have stopped him, Jack?" asked Phryne. "We've just found his cousin dead."

He shook his head.

"Not here, too public. And in any case, I don't like the coincidence that he's so close by. I want to wait until the morning."

He met her eyes.

"Part of me wants to know if he reports her missing."

Phryne thought, then shrugged. "He might just take the view that she's an adult, and can make her own choices?"

Jack concurred, but still refused to go anywhere but home at that point. There was only so much ruination of a night off he was prepared to suffer. Besides, he had decided she looked hot in her dress, and wouldn't she be much more comfortable without it?


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

The first person Phryne saw when she drew up outside the range office at Williamstown was Teddy Higginbottom, pinning up some notices on the cork board outside the building. He greeted her warmly, but was aghast at her news.

She took him into the office and found the makings of a nice cup of sweet tea. Well, a cup of sweet tea, anyway. Well, there was a lot of sugar in it.

"So awful ... both those lovely girls gone," he muttered to himself. He looked up at Phryne and shook his head.

"At first, some people weren't sure about having women here. Some of the men who served in the war thought that target rifle was for people who'd fired a shot in anger, and in defence of their country. It's down to these girls that the attitude has been changing. Kate has been a fixture here – hardly missed a day in the last six months, and not at all in the past month."

He gazed morosely into his teacup.

Phryne tipped her head quizzically.

"Well, apart from the day Elsie died?"

He shook his head.

"No, not even then. Every day, she was here, practising hard."

Alert now, Phryne pressed him. "You saw her that day? Can I ask where?"

He looked out of the window in thought.

"Just the usual – leaving the club house with her gun and heading towards the range. Silly girl – oh, I shouldn't call her that," he was horrified with himself for speaking ill of her. Phryne squeezed his hand reassuringly, "she was late – they'd long since started at two hundred yards."

"Did you see her again that day, Teddy?" asked Phryne, as casually as she could manage.

He thought back. "No, I don't think so – mind you, once the police were here and questioning everyone, it was all a bit chaotic. They even questioned me, and I haven't picked up a gun since 1925," he complained.

He finished his cup, and she excused herself. Trying not to break into an attention-attracting run, she made her way to the club house. Gaining entry to Kate's locker was the work of less than thirty seconds, and she picked carefully through the accumulation of shooting detritus, looking for something – anything – to explain why Kate might have lied about her presence at the range on the day her sister died.

Buried in the midst of a stack of old scorecards, she found an opened envelope. It was of good quality, heavy paper and embossed with the name of a firm called "Stewart & Stewart, Brisbane"

Shamelessly, she extracted the letter contained therein, and scanned it.

Then she thrust it into her pocket and sprinted back to the office to borrow the telephone.

Stewart & Stewart were lawyers, and Jack needed to see this letter before he went to see Malcolm Dunbar.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"I want to look around that house, Jack."

"So do I."

This was one of the more powerful arguments which had taken place in the Detective Inspector's office, and Senior Constable Collins was relieved only to be able to witness it from the front desk. On the whole, he'd have preferred they shut the door, but the Inspector regarded the entire station as his home territory where arguments were concerned, and Miss Fisher didn't recognise boundaries at all when the argument wasn't going her way.

"Yes, but I can do it without him noticing if you let me do it while you're interviewing him."

Jack opened his mouth to present a flat veto. She caught his eye. He glared. She switched to pleading.

"Jack, don't you see? If he killed Kate – which I think he did – I can find the evidence while you're asking him about it. Just drop me off before you get to the house and I'll take it from there."

"What about Elsie's death?" he asked reasonably, at which point she knew she'd won.

She frowned at the question, though. "I've got an idea about that which I would love to think is wrong, but I don't think it is. And if I can have a look around their bedrooms – Elsie's and Kate's – there will be something."

Her gaze became absent, and sad. "Sisters, even if they fight, communicate with each other, and they often write things down." Straightening her spine, she looked him in the eye. "If there's anything to find, Jack, I'm the best person to go looking. Admit it. It's why you brought me into this case in the first place."

They had to leave the Hispano at the station, but that part of the strategy at least was agreed straight away.

The police car stopped at the end of the street; Miss Fisher disembarked and walked nonchalantly along the street while the officials made the Official Approach.

"Mr Dunbar, I'm sorry to disturb you – can you spare us a moment?"

Mr Dunbar, in marked contrast to his dispatch of the same gentleman after their previous visit, was warm and welcoming.

Jack was equally gentle in his approach to the man he very much wanted to elect his chief suspect.

"Sir, I think we may have some bad news for you, but I must first ask – have you seen your cousin recently? Your cousin Kate, that is?"

Dunbar looked at him questioningly. "As a matter of fact, no – she didn't come home last night."

He shrugged helplessly. "I wasn't sure whether to raise any alarms. She's a grown woman, Inspector, I can't exactly issue a curfew."

More or less Phryne's words, but Jack pressed on.

 _In the meantime, Phryne had strolled into the garden. The hayfield of a lawn was no less abundant, although someone had apparently tried to make some headway into one corner, and was burning the resulting debris. The smoke was abundant – not surprising, given the moisture in the newly-cut grass. Phryne was drawn to the attempted bonfire. There was something on it which, although coloured similarly to the rest of the kindling, was definitely not grass. As she drew closer, she saw brass buttons entwined in the charred brown cotton of the coat. And spots of something darker on the fabric. Grabbing a stick, she drew the remnants out of the fire and waited patiently for them to cool._

"So, when did you notice her missing?"

"This morning. We usually say hello before she goes to the range, and today she didn't appear. She's been late before," he gave Jack a knowing 'young-women-of-today' look, which received a blank response, "so I didn't go up to her room straight away. In fact, I was just coming back down when you rang the doorbell." He put a hand to his brow in the manner of a parent with an unruly child. "Has she done something wrong, Inspector? Do I need to come and put up bail?"

"No sir, I'm sorry – I'm afraid Miss Dunbar was found dead last night. She had been murdered."

 _The back door was unlocked, which made life a lot easier. Phryne closed it as silently as she'd opened it, and made her way along the wall to the kitchen. It was as unkempt as the garden and the rest of the house. The table was piled with a mixture of plates, pots and rotting vegetables. She opened a few cupboards, and found only crockery gathering dust; and a few drawers containing, respectively, glass cloths, cutlery and the kitchen knives. Most of these last were dull with lack of use or any attention. One was quite, quite clean and shone gently as she lifted it, with gloved hand, out of the drawer. Another evidence bag was required._

"Murdered?" asked Dunbar, astonished. "How? Why?"

Jack inclined his head. "The 'How' is fairly plain, sir – she was attacked with a knife, in one of the backstreets off Little Lon. The 'Why' we're still working on." He eyed Dunbar calmly. "We were hoping you might be able to help us with that."

"But Inspector," he sputtered in offended tones, "I've been in Melbourne for only a couple of weeks – what on earth makes you think I could help in any way at all?"

"Specifically, sir, we thought you might be able to give us some background on this letter Miss Dunbar received last month from a firm of lawyers in Brisbane. It makes reference to a family connection, and a sizeable inheritance that both Elsie and Kate had been left: the ownership of the Dunbar sugar plantation."

 _Phryne snaked into the hallway; the door to the drawing room was ajar, and she could hear Jack asking Dunbar about the letter. Part of her ached to hear the swine's response; but she had one more task to perform, and looked warily at the wooden stairs of the old house. Which would creak?_

 _An old trick learned at Prudence Stanley's house came to her. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she edged to one side and tiptoed carefully up, staying as close to the wall as possible; the wood would have no chance to bend and complain if she could avoid it._

 _Identifying bedrooms was straightforward. The small one next to the stairs reeked of Malcolm's cologne and was studiously avoided. Opposite was a larger room overlooking the front of the house with Kate's Akubra slung over one of the posts of the double bed. Oddly, many of the drawers had been pulled out and the contents appeared to have been searched. Phryne cursed – it would be damnable for Malcolm to have found and removed whatever she sought._

"Oh, you've heard about that?" remarked Dunbar mildly. "Yes, I knew that Stewart's were going to write to them. Extraordinary, really – the succession working out that Kate and Elsie were the next beneficiaries." He barked a laugh. "Though what on earth they could be expected to do with one of the largest sugar plantations in Queensland is beyond me – were they supposed to shoot the canes down, do you think? Still, that's the way the Will works."

 _Phryne couldn't help noticing that even the most unlikely hiding places had been disturbed. The shoe cupboard? Really? Perhaps Dunbar had not, after all, found what he was looking for. She looked at the room again with her own eyes rather than those of Malcolm Dunbar, wandering round adjusting picture frames, closing drawers, running her finger along the spines of the books on the shelves. And smiled. And reflected that Kate Dunbar, whatever else she might have done, had certainly not entirely trusted her cousin Malcolm._

"So, Mr Dunbar," Jack's patience and inspiration was strained almost to breaking point. Where, in God's name, was Phryne?

A voice interrupted him from the doorway and Jack tried not to make his relief too visible.

"So, Mr Dunbar, where do you stand in the line of succession for the Dunbar sugar plantation?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Phryne leaned against the door frame, hands – containing the evidence bags – clasped firmly behind her back.

She had hoped Dunbar would fold easily, when presented with the likelihood of aces in the hands of the law enforcers he faced.

Apparently not.

"I'm sorry, you are …?" he asked in glacial tones.

Unabashed, Phryne stalked into the room, smiled broadly and shook him firmly by the hand. As she passed Hugh Collins, she thrust all the evidence bags into the small of his back; his hand instinctively reached behind him to take them, which was just as well. His poker face had also come on leaps and bounds since his first encounter with Miss Fisher.

"Phryne Fisher, Detective. Retained by your cousin Kate to investigate the murder of her sister."

Only Hugh could see her fingers crossed behind her back. Jack had worked out what was going on, but he'd been working on his poker face for much longer than Collins. Being married to the Joker in the pack also helped.

"Miss Fisher, forgive me, but I don't recall inviting you into my house." Dunbar's smile was forced.

"I apologise for the inconvenience, Mr Dunbar," she replied sweetly. "I was exploring the garden and the back door was open; and I am not one of those people who gives up a commitment to a client solely because said client has unfortunately succumbed to a criminal assault."

She sat herself comfortably in an armchair. "So, to repeat my question, Mr Dunbar – who inherits the family plantation now that both of your cousins are dead?"

"I … I'm afraid I don't know …" blustered Dunbar.

Jack gave a wintry smile. "No problem, Mr Dunbar. We can soon find out – I'm sure you won't mind if we use your telephone? Collins, get someone at the station to contact Brisbane police."

Everyone jumped as Dunbar slammed a fist on the table.

"No! Oh, for God's sake, have it your own way. Yes, the plantation comes to me," he exclaimed furiously.

"There now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" asked Phryne comfortingly. "I'm sure you'll find it much easier to explain how you got Kate to kill her sister."

"Inspector, I refuse to stand and listen to this madwoman," spat Dunbar.

"On the contrary, sir, I believe the lady is exhibiting remarkably good sense," said Jack mildly. "Please go on, Miss Fisher."

"You made Kate shoot Elsie. You told her there was a reason to do it," said Phryne slowly, thinking it out. "Who or what could Kate possibly love more than her sister – no matter how irritating?"

Realisation dawned, and certainty and disgust were expressed in equal measure.

"Her parents. That's it, isn't it? You made Kate believe that Elsie had somehow caused their deaths."

"Inspector, really." Dunbar's face was turning an odd shade of purple, and Jack was beginning to wonder if apoplexy might carry him off before a hangman's noose got the chance.

Phryne turned to Hugh Collins. "Constable, would you please give me the book in your hand?"

Collins obediently handed over a slim, pastel-covered volume. At the sight of it, Dunbar's demeanour changed dramatically – fury became confusion.

"Where did you get that?"

Phryne smiled, cat-like.

"You looked very hard, didn't you Mr Dunbar? But perhaps you didn't know your cousin well enough. I found it tucked inside the cover of a well-thumbed copy of the _Arabian Nights_. It's Kate's journal." Her disdain was palpable. "Perhaps if you'd understood your cousin a little better, you might have realised she'd feel a strong affinity with a woman who fought daily to survive a man's irrational fears. In Scheherazade's case, it was the King's superstition that he must kill each new wife; in yours, it was the rather more prosaic notion that you might have to get by without the income from the family plantation."

She turned to Jack. "Love and money, Inspector."

His eyes met hers with understanding – once again, her belief in these two motives for murder had led her to the answer.

Dunbar was beginning to understand that the game was up, and had moved from anger, via fear, to bravado.

"Oh, come on, Inspector. How do you manipulate your minions, of which I am sure you have many, to do your will? It will either be by use of carrot or stick. I looked at Kate and decided to use both; the stick of Elsie's supposed killing of their parents, and the carrot of the sole ownership of the sugar plantation."

He slumped onto the sofa and glared at Phryne. She returned his gaze enquiringly, but said nothing, allowing him to carry on digging his own grave.

"It turned out she wasn't that interested in the plantation, the little idiot. However, she was devastated to learn that Elsie had tampered with the brakes on the family car, thereby causing their deaths."

He sneered. "Kate was keen enough to stop her precious sister having to be arrested, tried and hanged for murder – she simply agreed to do the job herself when I threatened to turn Elsie in."

Phryne's heart went out to Kate. No wonder she had been so cold and emotionless – to be forced to elect oneself executioner of a loved one?

Jack's mind was on another matter, though.

"Dunbar, I remember that crash. I was part of the investigating team. There was no sign of tampering with the vehicle, not of any kind."

Dunbar actually laughed. "Of course there wasn't. I made it up. Faked some evidence."

For a moment, both Phryne and Jack were rendered speechless. Collins had surreptitiously put down the evidence bags and pulled out his notebook, and was scribing industriously.

Phryne recovered first, and got up to fetch the two remaining evidence bags from the table beside the constable.

"Then all that remained, presumably, was for you to dispose of Kate."

She handed the bags to Jack.

"Exhibits A and B, Inspector – the remains of a rather pathetic attempt to burn a brown, blood-spattered overall, and the only shiny knife in the kitchen drawer, which will doubtless match the slit to Kate Dunbar's jugular."

Jack looked again at Malcolm Dunbar, realisation dawning.

"When you were missing from your box at the theatre. That was when you did it, didn't you? Where was the overall, and the knife? In your car?"

Dunbar simply inclined his head. "I knew she was heading out to find a drink, and the places she usually went – it didn't take long to find her. She was already a bit drunk, so it was easy to get her to follow me into the alley. Tiresomely lachrymose woman."

In that moment, Phryne felt a cold hatred wash over her, and decided it would be safer to let Jack do the heavy lifting. She stood and walked steadily out of the room, out of the house and stood, gazing blindly at the trees; then walked over to a great oak, and placed her hands and forehead on its trunk, closing her eyes.

Jack found her there a short while later, and placed a gentle hand in the small of her back. She could almost feel the tension leaking away through the point of contact, and thanked her stars for the gift that was Jack Robinson.

"I've telephoned for Bert and Cec, they should be here shortly. I thought you'd rather not come back to the station with us."

She turned from the tree and gave him a slightly tremulous attempt at a smile.

"Thanks, Jack darling. No need to wait, I'll be fine now."

"If you're sure?" He touched her cheek and studied her eyes, and she nodded.

"Quite sure. I shall have a hot bath, and a large scotch, and then a detailed discussion of the dinner menu with Mr Butler. Don't be late."

Satisfied, he took a step back, placed his fingers to his lips in lieu of a kiss, then turned to walk to the police car.


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Jack wasn't precisely late, but there was a real risk that the martinis were going to get warm before Phryne heard his key in the door. She remained where she was, curled up in her armchair by the fire, book in hand, and looked up to see two of her very favourite gentlemen standing in the doorway: a slightly weary and crumpled but very dear policeman, and an imperturbable butler with a drinks tray in one hand. Both were smiling at her, and she smiled back.

The policeman came to give her a kiss and sit near her, and the butler provided them both with cocktails.

"Dry, Mr B.?"

"The merest bow to France, ma'am" he confirmed. Mr Butler had strong views on vermouth, especially those times when it was Best Left To The Imagination. "Twenty minutes?"

"Perfect, thank you." She smiled, and he drifted out, closing the double doors behind him.

She and Jack raised their glasses to one another, and took the first experimental sip; then simultaneously and involuntarily closed their eyes in a moment of pure bliss.

"I don't know what you pay Mr Butler, Phryne, but I'm sure it isn't enough."

"I quite agree – he's a treasure."

The second sip was savoured.

"So, Phryne, are you going to keep up the rifle shooting?"

She considered. "I think I'll try to keep my hand in – at the very least, Letty and Susan will probably appreciate the support." Then grinned at him mischievously. "It might be a handy skill if you need me to get you out of trouble, some time, Jack – you know what you're like."

He snorted, but let it pass.

"I don't think I want to go to Bisley, though," she continued. "An awful lot too close to my family for comfort, and I've had quite enough of gallivanting around the world for the moment."

He possessed himself of the hand that didn't have a martini glass in it, and raised it to his lips.

"I can't deny I'm relieved. I couldn't go with you, and … I've rather got used to having you around."

That was apparently her cue to sit on him; she uncurled from her chair and reassembled on his lap. His objection was conspicuous by its absence; he just transferred his drink to the other hand and gathered her in with his free arm.

Heaven, he decided, was a cold drink and a warm Phryne.

"Did you read Kate's journal, Jack?"

"Glanced through it."

"Did it say anything about Malcolm?"

"Not a thing." He craned his neck to look down at her. "Do you mean to say that you hadn't looked at it yourself?"

She smiled up at him. "No – there wasn't time. But the fact that Malcolm had hunted so hard for it suggested that he believed it would incriminate him. So … I just let him carry on believing it."

He blinked, and raised his glass to her in salute, before draining it and setting it down.

"Devious, Miss Fisher."

"Why, thank you, Inspector, I shall take that as a compliment." She tossed off the rest of her drink and placed her glass beside his.

"You should. I regard your deviousness as one of your most fascinating qualities," he confirmed, adjusting her position to face him.

"Just one of them, Jack? What are the others?"

They were both, in the end, late for dinner.


End file.
